


round and round the flames

by feminist14er



Series: build this fire higher, higher toward the sky [3]
Category: Pacific Rim (2013), The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-17 21:38:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3544688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feminist14er/pseuds/feminist14er
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>how do you go back to normal, when normal isn’t something you’ve ever known?</p>
            </blockquote>





	round and round the flames

They live at the hanger for several months, but the sheer amount of work has tapered off, and instead, the press has moved in. Clarke hasn’t done press in about five years, and she has no desire to be in the spotlight again. Indeed, when they ask her about her injuries, both mental and physical, she tends to shut down, and Bellamy tends to grip the armrests too tightly, and – it’s not ideal.

There are only a handful of jaegers left, and frankly, they’re not entirely sure what to do with them. There are cities to rebuild along the coastlines, those that have been decimated after almost ten years of constant inundation, but she doesn’t think the jaegers are going to be much help. Octavia and Lincoln try, for a little while, to pilot their jaeger and use it as a machine, but she can tell that Octavia’s exasperated with harnessing the brute force of a jaeger to the fine tasks of bridge building, house construction. Lincoln looks on at her exasperation with some delight, and Clarke smiles at both of them, at their easy partnership. 

She still sometimes avoids Bellamy, and she doesn’t know why. It feels like every one of her nerve endings lights up when she’s around him, but she’s never going to be able to forget the feeling of almost getting him killed, and she wants him, but she’s afraid, even now, to want something so much.

Life is still fragile, and she’s not sure how to approach him now.

There’s also the not insignificant problem that they don’t drift anymore, and she thinks that so much of their partnership was mediated by ArkAngel, and she was only just learning how to talk to him, and she doesn’t know how to keep going.

She’s standing outside the hanger one evening, the cool breeze blowing through her hair when her skin prickles, and she knows he’s beside her. She turns to look at him, and she’s blown away again by the beauty of this man. The sun highlights his freckles and the wind blows his hair just enough to tussle it, and jesus, she just wants to jump his bones.

He turns and looks at her then, and their eyes catch, and she feels like she’s just looking, waiting, for something to help her speak to him.

“I’m sorry, you know,” she blurts out. His eyebrows raise high on his forehead, and she feels like a fool, but she’s started, and she goes on. “For almost getting you, well, us, killed.”

He’s frowning now. “Clarke, you didn’t do anything wrong. It could have happened to anyone.”

She shakes her head, and her voice cracks a little. “But it didn’t. It happened to us. It happened to me, and it could have cost you your life.”

“It almost cost _you_ , Clarke. That’s what I don’t think I can live without. But if you need forgiveness, I’ll give that to you. You’re forgiven.” He reaches out, wipes at the tears under her eyes. “Princess. It’s not your fault. You don’t carry the weight of the world.”

She’s crying in earnest now, her fear of losing him, the actuality of losing her mother, the strangeness of living without anything to do, and she feels _lost_ , doesn’t know what to do. He reaches for her, presses his lips against the side of her head, and she doesn’t know how she went from wanting to jump him to crying, but. It’s been a really long few years.

She finally calms under the soothing brush of his hands, and she presses her lips against his cheek, against his lips, before taking his hand and leading him back into the hanger.

\--

There is really nothing to do, she keeps realizing. Bellamy idly reads, she adjusts her mother’s desk, Raven and Wick toy with the jaegers for no apparent reason, and Monty and Jasper have started a grow (which she’s pretty sure is illegal on government property, but she’s not the Commander, she’s not going to enforce anything). Octavia and Lincoln pop in and out of the hanger, and if Bellamy’s jaw is tense when they wander away, Clarke just laughs, tells him to let it be. They’re exploring the world for the first time, it feels like, and when she says it that way, he smiles a little.

It’s as they’re getting ready for bed one night that he asks, “Do you want to get out and see the world?” 

She’s surprised, really, because – well, no, she’s never wanted to. Her entire life has been jaegers and kaijus and fighting, and she’s never even thought about leaving the hanger, because it wasn’t clear if the war was ever going to stop, and she’s never wished for anything like a trip to the real world, because she couldn’t abandon her responsibilities. But now…

“Where were you thinking?” She asks.

He shrugs, the muscles in his back rippling as he puts on a clean shirt. She bites her lip, watches him through her eyelashes, tries to squash down the _wanting_ she feels. “Wherever you want, I guess. There are two cars in the hanger, and Raven and Wick have already offered to let us borrow one.”

“A man with a plan, I see,” she teases. “I always liked that about you.”

He grins, reaches for her, and she falls down against him, curls into his chest, ignores the roaring in her veins that demands him. “Okay,” she whispers, and he kisses her head, rolls them over, turns out the light.

\--

She almost can’t believe they’re actually leaving. She hasn’t left the hanger in two years, and it really wasn’t voluntary last time.

Bellamy starts out driving, and they wave to everyone behind them before Clarke starts fussing with the radio, turns it to classic rock. Her feet are on the dash, and his thumbs are drumming to the beat along the steering wheel, and _jesus_ but it feels so normal. Clarke knows this is not an unheard of thing for other people, but it’s so new to her, and she feels lightheaded with excitement.

They stay along the coast for several days, camping along the ocean. When they hit a city for the first time, Clarke insists that they stay for a while.

Staying for a while turns into helping out with rebuilding, dying her hair darker, and staying out of the spotlight. She knows that the war was defending the human population of the planet, but she also knows that they did a lot of damage in the name of protection, and she wants to help people, if she can. Bellamy strips down to his pants and puts up walls alongside her, puts a hardhat on over his curly hair, and she grins at the sight.

When people begin to whisper about her, when her hair starts to shine through, they get back in the car and start driving east. They drive through the desolate, scorching desert, and she marvels at the redness of the rocks, the blue of the sky. She’s never seen anything like it, and if she gets horrendously burned, Bellamy takes great pleasure in slathering aloe all over her body late that night.

When they hit the Continental Divide, she gets out of the car and yells, all of her pent up anxiety over the current state of her life absorbed by the heavy rain clouds and the mountains around her. She loves it here, would stay for years, and Bellamy is looking at her like she’s composed of a galaxy, endlessly wonderful, and she kisses him sloppily, hungrily, when they get back in the car.

Slowly, they make their way through the corn and soy fields, and the land looks – well, it looks tired. She feels a kind of sympathy toward this landscape, which has given all it has and is being asked for more. She falls asleep with her cheek pressed against the door, and Bellamy glances at her, sees the exhaustion lining her frame, lets her sleep.

He drives through the night, back to where he came from. He hasn’t told her that they were stopping here, isn’t sure how to feel about stopping here, about bringing her here.

When they get to the old house, though, the clapboard siding still faded and the sheets old and musty, he drops her gently in his old bed, pulls the covers over her, and pulls her toward him. He falls asleep in his old bed, wrapped around his new world, and it is unsettling, but somehow it feels right, at least for the moment.

\--

She wakes up in an unfamiliar place, light streaming through the windows, and she’s curled up inside the cradle of Bellamy’s arms, in a bed that smells like him, and he’s stirring against her, his hands trailing up her side, over her arms, and she’s wracked with shivers in the wake of his touch, the longing building up inside her. She rolls over, brushes her nose along his sternum, lays a trail of kisses up to his mouth. She sighs against him, and he opens his mouth under her touch, and this right here, she’s wanted this for so long.

She breaks the kiss eventually, rests her forehead against his while they catch their breath. “Is this your bed?” she asks finally.

He nods, a small smile on his face. “Yeah. Welcome to my house, Princess.”

She rolls her eyes at the nickname, but it’s taken on a whole new level of fondness with him, and she finds she doesn’t mind. “Well, can I have the grand tour?”

He rolls over, takes her by the end, and pulls her out of bed. He shows her Octavia’s old room, boy band posters peeling off the walls and old makeup littered around the room. He leads her past his mother’s room, the door still tightly closed and shades drawn, no light passing through the crack at the bottom. He takes her downstairs, rummages through the food he brought in from the car, and sets up to make pancakes.

“I didn’t know you cooked,” she says, delight in her voice.

“Clarke, I practically raised O. Of course I cook.” He turns back to look at her, and she’s perched on the table, eyes traveling across the faded curtains before they reach his face. She’s smiling, and as always, it’s like the sun is shining everywhere.

“I like it.” She says, simply.

He turns back to the stove, trying to ignore the blush he can feel along the back of his neck.

They eat pancakes, and he tries not to stare as Clarke licks the maple syrup off her hands. When they’ve finished, he takes her hand, pulls her outside onto the porch. The house overlooks miles of wheat fields, and in the early morning light, it’s beautiful. He stands behind her, arms wrapped around her waist, and she hums in appreciation.

They spend the day wandering around the property, but they end up back at the porch in the evening. Clarke has her sketchbook out, and he can’t tell if she’s sketching the fields, the house, or him, but he’s pulled out an unfinished book and is trying to wrap his brain around the words on the page. After some time, she reaches out for his hand, twines her fingers through his, and gently tugs.

She leads him back to his room, and when she gets to the edge of the bed, she lets go of his hand, tugs her shirt up by the hem. His eyes widen a fraction, and she can feel the smile playing at the edge of her lips. He’s seen her before, but she’s never undressed specifically _for_ him, and she’s been waiting and waiting, and she _wants_.

She reaches for him again, tangling their fingers, and brings her lips to his, soft and sweet. When she bites at his bottom lip, though, he growls, grabs at her belt loop and tugs them closer together. She grins for real now, smiling against his lips, reveling in the feeling of his shirt on her skin. His calloused hands work up her ribs until he’s cupping her breasts through her bra, and she’s gasping at the contact, suddenly desperate for more.

She backs away from him, gesturing toward his shirt. “Off,” she says, reaching behind her to unclasp her bra. She lets it fall, laughing at the hair standing up on end on his head, before she slides her hands down his torso. He gets his hands between them again, brings her back, tangles his hands in her hair as he kisses her, thorough and deep. She’s sighing into his mouth again when he grasps her breast in his hand and tweaks her nipple, and _that_ , that has her in business, hips jumping toward his, grinding just a little bit, and he’s smirking, she knows he is, but she can’t be bothered because he’s trailing kisses down her neck, and he’s turning them around so he can sit on the edge of the bed, lap at her breasts with his mouth, still using his hand on the other, and she’s groaning maybe an embarrassing amount, her hips twitching toward him, and suddenly the hand that’s been at her breast is unbuttoning her jeans, sliding down the zipper, pulling them down so he can glide a finger along her, through the wetness there, and _christ_ , she’s into this man a lot. A lot.

She slides into his lap, her legs already shaking, his teeth at her breast and his fingers deep inside her crooking, his thumb at her clit, and _fuck_ , she’s coming, grinding against his hand, and “That’s it, Princess, just let it all out,” and she’s whimpering, pulling back when she gets too sensitive.

She ducks her head a little, holding it against his shoulder, and she’s grabbing his hand, licking the taste of herself off him, staring him dead in the eye, and he’s groaning now, bucking up into her just a little, and her satisfaction at having this effect knows no bounds.

She stands back up, dragging him with her, and while she steps out of her pants, he slides his shoes off, his pants following. She walks back over to him, takes his hand back, and leads them back to the bed. She starts kissing him again, running her hand along his arms until he rolls them over, his hand tracing teasing lines along her thigh. She can already feel herself getting wet again, feels the ache deep in her bones, waiting for this man. She trails her mouth down his neck, taking his skin in her teeth and biting gently, and his hips jerk toward hers, and she’s alight with satisfaction all over again.

They haven’t done this yet, and as her hands trace the broadness of his back, she can feel the hesitation in his body, and she turns to look at him, hitches her leg higher on his hip. She wants this, wants him to feel how much she wants this, and she misses the ease of the drift in communicating things like this, but they don’t drift anymore, have to assimilate to the real world again, and this is part of that, right?

So she looks at him, whispers “ – Bell?”, waits for him to meet her eyes. His eyes are lust-addled, and they’ve been dancing around this for months now, since she finally started healing again. “You want this, right?” And he’s nodding fervently, brushing his lips against hers.

“Do you?” he asks, his voice husky. 

She’s nodding now, feels him reach between them again, and she’s shuddering against him. “So much, Bell. So much.” And he’s ducking his head to the crook of her neck, groaning, kissing along the junction between her neck and shoulders, and she feels, she feels, she feels.

He separates from her briefly, tripping toward his pants and fishing for a condom, and when he gets back, she kisses him again, breathes him in, pulls him over her. When he slides into her, it feels _right_ , and if it isn’t perfect at first, well, that’s how they are, but as he’s sliding against her, she can feel it building again, and she’s twining her fingers through his hair, scratching at the back of his neck, and he’s pulling her against him, hitching her leg against his hip, and his hips snap against hers again and again until she’s cresting, sighing out his name, and he’s following behind her, and it is everything to her in this moment, the weight on him on top of her.

She slowly breathes out when he rolls off her, gets up to clean up. When she gets back, he’s sitting up halfway, waiting to gather her into his arms. They fall asleep like that, and she’s reminded how good this is.

\--

They stay at his house for a couple of weeks, and if they christen almost every surface in the house, no one’s there to say anything about it, and her heart is so full she’s afraid it will spill over, but she’s _happy_.

Eventually they move on, driving for the East Coast, and when she sees the ocean there, she’s almost disappointed. There are no major geologic formations here, the tide easy and gentle against her skin, and the roar she’s used to is absent. Still, she turns to see him watching her, and she drags him into the water with her, both of them freezing, teeth chattering, but wrapped around each other like there’s no place they’d rather be.

There is no place she’d rather be than with him.

\-- 

They make it back to the Midwest, and she looks at the house forlornly. She wants to stay, is worried that he wants to stay.

She’s not sure where she belongs, but she’s not sure she can be away from the ocean forever. She’s been there her whole life, one way or another, isn’t sure how to be away from it.

He watches her, watches the way she looks at his house. He wants to be where she is, and to be honest, there’s so very little for them here. They’ve earned all the money they could possibly ever need, more money than he expected to make in an entire lifetime, but neither of them are the type to sit idly. He’s not sure what they would do here, doesn’t want to tie her down.

\--

It’s on their way back to Eastern that she asks him. “Bell, what are we going to do?”

He chances a look at her, sees her curled in a ball against the side of the car, her eyes wide. “I don’t know, Princess.”

It’s the trouble of being heroes, he thinks. The stories always talked about the battles, the epic quests. None of them give any guidance about what to do after the battles are won, after freedom is granted, and they don’t know what to do either. He raised his sister during his childhood, and she was already fighting the war during hers.

They literally don’t know who to be, or how.

\--

They make it back to Eastern, and if there’s been more silence between the two of them, it’s nothing they’re willing to think about too closely.

They arrive back to a welcome from Octavia and Lincoln, and Octavia’s shuttling Clarke along before Bellamy can say anything, and the two women are head to head, Clarke’s shoulders shaking with laughter, and he can’t be bothered to be upset that he didn’t even say a proper hello to his sister.

He shakes his head, turns to Lincoln, and claps him on the back before he heads off.

It’s later, as he’s curling up in bed that Clarke wanders into his room, a small, secretive smile on her face.

“What’s that about?” he asks.

“Hmm? Oh, nothing. Just something Octavia mentioned.” She strips out of her shirt, wanders over to him, and he’s helpless to do anything but watch the sway of her body in the dim light, and he’s at the mercy of this woman, whatever else happens. When she moves to straddle him, he groans, thrusting up into her without a second thought.

\--

It’s several days later that Clarke mentions that they should think about staying, and he’s surprised.

“What would we do here?” he asks.

She shrugs, but there’s a gleam in his eyes that he’s never seen before, and he’s instantly suspicious. “Do you know something that I don’t?”

She shrugs again, but there’s a smile playing around her lips now, and he has no idea what to think, so he brushes his lips across her forehead and goes out to get breakfast.

He’s promptly interrupted by Octavia dragging him outside. When they get to the spot he’s shared with Clarke, she sits him down.

“I’m pregnant, Bell.” She announces, hands folded in her lap, and he’s – well, he’s _stunned_.

“Are you sure? Wait, did you tell _Clarke_ before you told me?!”

And she has the audacity to laugh at him, because of course he’d focus on who he told first. “Yes, I’m very sure. And I told Clarke first because telling you is harder.” For the first time in a long time, he sees uncertainty in her face, and he is crushed that he put it there.

He sweeps her into a hug. “Congratulations, O. I’m so proud of you, so happy for you.” He pulls back, cups her face in both hands, wipes the tears from under her eyes. “You’re happy, right?”

And she’s laughing, nodding. “Of course I’m happy. Everything else is this ridiculous unknown, but this. I’m happy about this.”

He hugs her again, and if his brain thinks briefly about cuffing the back of Lincoln’s head for getting his baby sister pregnant, he lets the thought slip away as soon as it came to him.

\--

They stay. Clarke watches as Octavia grows, and Bellamy sometimes catches a wistful look in her eyes, but she never says anything to him, just monitors Octavia’s pregnancy. She’s as helpful as any of them, pulling O’s hair back when she’s sick, trying to make her laugh when her hormones make her wonky, finding foods that she likes, that she can keep down.

They’ve been there for seven months, and Clarke’s right, there’s not much for them to do, but she makes the thirty minute drive inland a couple of times a week, treats patients at a free clinic, drives home to the hanger, treats O, hangs out with the rest of the people still in the hanger. (Each of them have talked about leaving, but they all have such specialized knowledge, and none of them need jobs – it’s become an informal large group home).

And it’s seven months, but Bellamy starts talking to Clarke about redoing the hanger, redesigning it so it is a home, not an ex-military base that they all occupy. And she’s looking at him with a smile on her face and tears in her eyes, and they’re _making it work_ , and sure, it’s weird, but they’re all together, and best of all, the two of them are working through it all.

Octavia goes into labor before Bellamy and Lincoln have had time to finish redesigning the room that was going to be the nursery, but it’s nearly there, and when his niece comes into the world, Bellamy can barely hold back his tears. Clarke rests her head on his shoulder, sighs, and the two of them watch Octavia and Lincoln coo over their daughter, and new life is a precious thing in their world, which up until so recently had only been fighting off the apocalypse.

\--

They’re named the godparents, of course, although Raven and Wick are the second set, and it is a challenge and a delight to have an infant in the hanger. She sleeps in with Lincoln and Octavia until Lincoln and Bellamy finish the nursery, and when Clarke sees it, she casts a funny look at the second crib, and gives Bellamy a questioning look. He shrugs, says “For someday,” and grabs her hand.

She doesn’t ask whose someday it’s meant to be.

\--

At the anniversary of her mother’s death, she gets restless, testy, starts crabbing at Bellamy. She finally wakes one morning to packed bags, and when she looks at Bellamy with a jolt, he’s holding the car keys with a hand outstretched, and she has to take a breath to calm her racing heart.

She takes his hand, and they leave, O waving to them as they go.

Clarke doesn’t ask where they’re going, and when they end up at the house in the wheat fields again, she breathes the air and sighs, looks at Bellamy and smiles.

They spend days in bed, quieting the trauma of a year ago with kisses, the brush of skin on skin. When they emerge again, he reads, and she paints, and it is a quiet idyll, exactly what she wanted without even knowing it.

\--

When they go home, she is smiling secretly again, but he doesn’t ask, knows she’ll tell him when she’s ready.

\--

It’s a month or so before she tells him, and it’s late at night, just like it was last year, her hair shining in the light, her breasts swaying before him, and _he knows_ , just needs her to tell him.

She smiles at him from underneath her lashes, says the words. “I’m pregnant, this time.”

And it is everything to him, the look on her face, the radiant smile gracing her face.

She is the world, and the galaxy is expanding and contracting all around them, and they in parallel with it.

**Author's Note:**

> The third, and I think, the final part of this universe. Thank you so much to everyone who has left kind and wonderful comments on these works; you are all tremendous, and I appreciate your encouragement!
> 
> Also, in case this needs saying, the titles are as follows:
> 
> "the fire is coming" - "Run", by Daughter  
> "all you have is your fire" - "The Arsonist's Lullaby", by Hozier  
> "round and round the flames" - "Dust to Dust", by The Civil Wars


End file.
